


A Winter's Tale

by NajaLau



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Exhaustion, Gen, Haunting, Lost Musketeer, Post-Season/Series 02, Winter, word picture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:36:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NajaLau/pseuds/NajaLau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the war with Spain, Athos is separated from his fellow Musketeers. Struggling to carry out his mission and return to his brothers, Athos must not only fight the bitter cold of winter but also face the ghosts of his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Non-graphic description of the death of an animal.
> 
> Timeline: Set after the end of series 2 during the war with Spain. Athos is captain of the Musketeers.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from BBC's Muskeeters nor Alexandre Dumas' original version.
> 
> Author's Note: So, over the winter months I kinda fell in love with The Musketeers and was inspired to write this little snippet as I watched the snow falling outside my window.

**A Winter’s Tale**

The world is pure white. All around him the branches of the trees bow down, heavy with powdery snow and glittering icicles. From the leaden sky above tiny snowflakes sprinkle down to settle on his head and shoulders before being snatched away by the wind. Wherever he looks, there is nothing but bright uncorrupted white, making his eyes ache with the terrible beauty of it.

If it wasn’t for the earthy heat of the horse under him and its labored breathing, he might have believed himself caught in a dream. Even the painful sting of the cold feels somehow distant and unreal.

It has been some time since he could feel his fingers, but a quick glance assures him that if nothing else the leather gloves have conveniently frozen around their grasp on the reins. Worse still are his legs which at first had burned in fiery agony from the cold but now are quite numb. Enough so that he barely feels when his horse brushes too close to the cracked trunk of an oak tree nearly unseating him from the impact.

The near miss shakes him out of his stupor. Drawing a deep breath of wintry air, he forces his stiffened limbs into action and gracelessly slides out of the saddle. It is a strange sensation to be standing firmly on the ground but getting no confirmation from his legs to this effect. He clings unashamedly to the saddle as he seeks to stomp at least some modicum of feeling back into his feet. After a few moments white-hot needles start to poke and burn his flesh. Gritting his teeth against the growing pain, he stumbles the few steps until he can catch the bridle of his horse.

He starts walking.

By now the heavy blanket of snow reaches well above his knees and the exertion of pushing through it soon brings welcome warmth back to his blood. Slowly but steadily he puts one foot in front of the other, barely noticing the endless procession of white-cloaked trees passing by and the shadows growing longer.

Hours later and he can feel his energy flagging, his progress more the stagger of a drunkard than the march of a soldier. It is cold and cruel this beautiful world of white – he stumbles, catches himself and continues – so utterly unforgiving and more than a little otherworldly.

_Just like her_ , a stray thought whispers before he has a chance to smother it.

He tries to fight it, but in the quiet of the forest it is a lost battle. Like the opening of Pandora’s Box, the mere thought of her brings with it a whirlwind of sharp brittle memories that cuts into him like a thousand pieces of broken glass. The scent of her perfume and the sound of her laughter fill his mind until he is drowning in jasmine and chiming silver bells.

Perhaps this is why he is strangely unsurprised when he first sees her, sitting in a tree with blue forget-me-nots dotting her dark flowing hair and the lace of her dress impossibly white against the snow. As always the sheer sight of her loveliness makes his heart stutter. The phantasm smiles as he passes underneath her tree. It is the same radiant smile she wore on their wedding day and his heart aches all the more for it.

All throughout the day he sees her. Sometimes she walks by his side; a ghostly presence that leaves no footprints in the snow. Sometimes she hovers on the edge of his vision, flashes of dark hair and indigo petals, and the faint music of her voice echoing from the trees. At one time she even perches on his horse as he laboriously forges a path through the snow.

He knows he is being haunted, that she is merely the conjuring of his fevered mind, but still he does not resent her company as he journeys through the endless white of the forest. It is his penance.

Besides, she has long since earned the right to haunt him. Dead or alive.

Twilight comes and then fades into night, leaving the world bathed in cold, harsh moonlight that spills through the trees and branches like molten silver. The frozen tapestry of stars in sky is reflected in the thousands upon thousands of tiny crystals around him. The air is so cold it burns his lungs and he does not think he has ever been this cold before.

Still he walks on.

The first soft rays of rose and gold have only just begun to peak through the trees when his horse finally stumbles and he is dragged down with the beast. It takes his exhausted mind a while to understand what has happened. When it does, he feels a thrill of despair run through him.

Dark, wet eyes meet his mournfully as the animal shivers weakly under his hands. He knows what must be done; yet lying there in the snow he cannot seem to summon the strength to do it.

The sudden surge of loneliness is choking and so for the first time he deliberately seeks her out. The spectre of his treacherous wife. She is standing beneath a hawthorn tree just a few paces away. There is a quiet sadness in her smile and understanding in her eyes. She walks over to him and kneels, gently petting the frost-covered coat of the horse, and he drinks in her presence. He draws his pistol, feeling numb and so very tired.

A moment later the color of the snow matches the vibrant red berries of the hawthorn tree and the acrid stench of gunpowder taints the air.

He runs his glowed hand through the stiff dark mane in a silent apology, regretting that he could not offer the noble animal a better fate. Yet even now there is no room for sentimentality. As always duty comes first. The leather of the saddlebacks with their precious cargo has frozen solid and he is forced to use his main gauche to hack them free. The added weight drags his steps as he continues onward.

She is his constant companion now. If he wanted to, he could easily reach out and touch the ghost wandering faithfully by his side. He never does. Whether from fear that she might disappear like the will-o’-the-wisp she is or from fear that he might feel warm flesh and bones beneath his fingers, he cannot say.

By the time twilight falls anew, he has long ago lost count of the times he has stumbled; fatigue and the growing darkness working in concert to slow him down. Although in fairness not all the shadows clouding the edges of his vision can be blamed on the coming night.

She no longer smiles. Instead a small frown creases her face and every now and again she moves ahead, beckoning him towards a smoother path or guiding him around hidden obstacles. His own guardian angel leading him to redemption or damnation; he is no longer sure which.

His movements have become sluggish and he can no longer feel the cold. A small part of him knows this is bad, but his thoughts are shrouded in a fog of exhaustion. It is becoming harder and harder to remember where he is going or why. The knowledge hovers just at the edge of his mind but disappears when he reaches for it. It doesn’t matter, he still remember the important bits: That the lives of men – _his men_ – depend on this mission. That he cannot allow himself to fail. That he must continue.

He staggers on.

As night truly falls, his mind begins to wander. It leaves the frozen forest and travels back to the sound of meadow larks singing and the sweet scent of wildflowers in bloom. Looking down, he no longer sees snow and ice, but instead feels the prickle of tall grass brushing against his fingertips and the lazy heat of sunshine on his skin.

There, in the shade of the old tree on the hill, she is waiting for him. Clear blue forget-me-nots carpet the ground around her and stray rays of sunshine play in her hair. For the briefest of moments, the glint of mother-of-pearl catches his eyes in the grass.

She reaches for him and he marvels once again at her beauty, at the guileless happiness in her face, and the fact that she belongs to him. The kiss is sweet and deep and everything he ever wanted in life. Smiling mischievously she slips from his grasp, dancing just out of reach. He can feel laughter bubbling in his chest, carefree and light.

With the brightness of the sun in his eyes he gives chase.

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜


End file.
